When the unfortunate coffee incident happened on Sunday, I found myself experiencing a strange sensation. Empathy. Delayed empathy for an ex-boyfriend. Out of respect for his favorite Days of Our Lives character, we’ll call him Roman.
Coffee, one of life’s necessities, one of my deepest desires, sacred, was there on the floor exposed and rendered useless. Contaminated.
During my Hemingway/Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf/Jackson Pollack stage, I had consumed large quantities of ethanol. Thankfully, I made it out alive and (in my opinion) with minimal brain damage. At that time, it wasn’t unusual for my to binge on food and particularly martinis (the real kind, not the fruity apple crap). As a result, I vomited more than someone ever should, on a regular basis.
And I’d always hear, “Lonna! There you go again! Why do you always do that?!?!”
It wasn’t like dear old Roman had to clean anything up. For the most part, I kept my stomach contents contained in a trash can, toilet, baseball cap, old shoes, tube socks… And if I didn’t I accepted responsibility for my mess and in a few hours (sometimes the next day), I’d remove and disinfect the unspeakable. Still, he’d howl.
Then, the obvious hit me in the face. He loved food more than he loved many things (me apparently–he did cheat on me at a boyscout camp when he worked there as a counselor–a boyscout camp!!–because you know places like that are swarming with women!!). Life for him was mostly about food. Cheese steaks, cheese fries, Chipwichs, chips and dip, Quarter Pounders With Cheese. Well, also about his guitar, alcohol, and pot, but I’m trying to keep this uncomplicated.